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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28388826">bruised egos</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wambsgangs/pseuds/wambsgangs'>wambsgangs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>tumblr crossposts [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Succession (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:41:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,354</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28388826</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wambsgangs/pseuds/wambsgangs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>three times that tom lies about his black eye, and one time that he tells the truth.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>tumblr crossposts [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2109588</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>bruised egos</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/van1lla_v1lla1n/gifts">van1lla_v1lla1n</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i've wondered about the canon-compliant explanation for tom's black eye in 1x06, but it wasn't really until i read a recent update to van1lla_v1lla1n's <i>glorious</i> fic, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28089612/chapters/68820435">"Maybe: Greg,"</a> that i felt compelled to write my take. (but the black eye origin story in that fic is SO GOOD. trust me.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>one.</strong>
</p>
<p></p><div class="">
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Wait.” Shiv frowned up at Tom, looked at him like she was really seeing him for the first time that morning. In a way, she was—they’d spent breakfast talking in circles around each other about wedding venues and presidential candidates and corporate cover-up jobs. “What the fuck is that?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tom leaned back on his elbows, tilting his face away from Shiv. “What?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Your face. The fucking shiner under your eye,” Shiv said, squinting. “Wambsgans. Where the hell did that come from?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His hand went instinctively to his upper cheekbone. This morning, he’d half-considered dabbing a bit of Shiv’s concealer on it, but he worried that it might draw more attention that way—an unintended effect. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Oh, ah. A bit embarrassing, really,” Tom hedged.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>That seemed to pique Shiv’s interest. “You can tell,” she said, snapping her iPad case shut. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He wasn’t sure that he liked the predatory glint in her eye, at the scent of weakness on the wind. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I think I, ah, I was on my phone in bed. Middle of the night insomnia, you know, looking at venues in Lake Como? And, I sort of—dropped it on my face.” Tom forced a laugh, tugged at his collar that felt a touch too tight. “Typical Clumsy Clara, over here.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Shiv raised an eyebrow. “Oh, Tom. Come on, that’s not embarrassing.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No, I guess not,” Tom admitted. “But people talk. Watercooler gossip.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“About you? No,” Shiv said dismissively. “Probably go unnoticed.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Oh,” Tom said, deflating. “Sure. No, you’re right.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Shiv resumed packing up her shoulder bag, and Tom settled back against the kitchen island to watch. It was ritualistic, practiced to the point of unconscious recitation. Laptop, sip of coffee from her <em>Miller for Congress 2018</em> mug. iPad, bite of multigrain toast. File folders, coffee. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She slung the bag over her shoulder and made for the door. “I’ll be late,” she called without looking. “So, uh, don’t wait up.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Okay, honey. Have a good—” The door slammed shut, punctuating his sentence. “—day.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tom touched the bruise under his eye again, pressing the tips of his fingers into the sore flesh and wincing at the dull pain that lanced through him.</p>
</div><div class=""><p>Second only to the pain that comes with lying to his fiancée. </p><p> </p>
<hr/></div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <strong>two.</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>He’d just slid into the backseat of the Lincoln town car when his driver turned around to face him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Everything okay, Mr. Wambsgans?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tom stared, stunned into silence for a beat before he laughed, brushed a hand over his bruise. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Oh, this?” Tom rolled his eyes. “Please. You should have seen the other guy.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The driver answered with a thin-lipped smile, one that read as polite incredulity. “I see.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Real, ah, real big guy,” Tom continued, seized with the insane desire to flesh out this story that both of them knew was complete and total bullshit. He wasn’t entirely sure, because he’d only had a few fleeting glances at his driver out from behind the wheel, but the man had to have a good three inches on him, and at least fifty pounds of solid muscle. Tom, on the other hand—well, he relied on his naturally upturned brow and Midwestern mien to keep him out of any serious trouble. “But, you know, by the time I was through with him? Putty in my goddamn hands.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He watched a flicker of a smile die on his driver’s lips. “Well. Good to see you in one piece,” he said, before turning the key in the ignition and pulling away from the curb. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tom frowned to himself in the backseat. He had a bit of a habit of overdoing it, when it came to storytelling. A childhood predilection that he had never quite grown out of, much to his mother’s chagrin. But it was, if nothing else, a harmless way to bolster his lackluster self-confidence, to punch up his anecdotes and make them a bit more colorful. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>If he was actually marrying into the Roy family in a matter of months, how else was he to compete with their cosmopolitan backgrounds? </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He wondered if he’d oversold it. Probably, given that he’d barked at his driver last week for not pulling up close enough to the curb and forcing him to step into a slush puddle in order to climb into the car. (“Do you know how much these fucking leather brogues cost me at Saks?” he’d demanded, once inside. “No? Well, then don’t fucking make me buy a pair of fucking cross-country skis to get inside the goddamn car. Six inches from the curb, yeah?”) </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Or maybe. Tom glowered at his bruise-tinged reflection in his locked phone screen. Maybe the story had come off too… sexual. Patently ridiculous, the idea of him in some sweaty, locker room tryst with a muscle man, but still. He knew the look of distaste too well: the curled lip, the shaded eye. </p>
</div><div class=""><p>Hmm. It needed a little workshopping. But he could make it work. </p><p> </p>
<hr/></div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <strong>three.</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>“Holy shit. Wambsgans!” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>At the sound of Roman’s voice calling out to him from Kendall’s office, Tom doubled back and popped his head into the office with a hangdog smile. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“A fucking black eye?” Roman asked, smirking. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You should see the other guy,” Tom deadpanned in a low voice, closing the door behind him. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Roman’s teasing grin widened. Shark-like. Teeth bared for the kill. “The guy who jammed his dick in your eye?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tom faltered, his smile freezing on his lips. <em>Fuck,</em> he’d had all fucking day to work out an alternative that didn’t sound just, like, completely homoerotic. And this was his fallback. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Let’s just say, uh,” Tom said in an undertone, “I was in bed, with Shiv, so…” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Kendall frowned. “What? She punched you?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No,” Tom laughed, after an uncomfortable beat. “Things just get—a little hot and heavy. A little freaky-deaky. So…” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Fucking our sister?” Roman cut in. “That’s cool, man.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah, it’s kinda weird when you talk about that,” Kendall agreed with a vague look of disgust that made Tom want to shrivel up and die right there, on the fucking spot. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Roman laughed. “No, I think it’s really cool. Like, what’s it like, to bang our sister?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tom looked between Kendall and Roman—future brothers-in-law, objectively two people who should be on his side, but he couldn’t help but feel like he’d just walked into a room only to become an unwitting punchline to a joke he hadn’t heard in full. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He offered a weak smile. </p>
</div><div class=""><p>“So, what’s going on? Clue me in.” </p><p> </p>
<hr/></div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <strong>&amp; one. </strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Even if Greg was too gracious to call attention to it, Tom could tell that he was looking at it all night. Over dinner, between sips of expensive vintage and surreptitious ortolan swallows. In furtive glances, when he thought Tom was preoccupied with hitting the waitress with a barrage of questions about the tasting menu. Obscured by flickering candlelight and shy hair tucks, but obvious, nonetheless. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He refused to acknowledge it, though. Because it would level the playing field, so to speak. They had a<em> bond,</em> sure, but Tom still needed an edge. He couldn’t just give Greg a reason to stop looking at him like he hung the fucking moon. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The revelation that there would be a reckoning in the morning, a seismic shift in power at the executive level, pushed the thought of abject humiliation for a fourth time at Greg’s expense clear out of Tom’s mind. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“This time tomorrow, you and me—I could—I could be, like, the third most important guy in the company,” Tom breathed, awestruck by the very notion. “I mean, it’s the storming of the Bastille. Let us eat cake. I mean.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Greg nodded along with Tom’s stream-of-consciousness thread. “I don’t know what we’re talking about.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Let’s just—you ever had gold leaf vodka?” Tom asked, when he’d recovered enough from a bout of hysterical laughter. “No? Fuck, Greg. You’re in for it, my friend.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It had been a while since he’d let himself turn loose like this, out of deference to Shiv and her preference for highbrow entertainment—if you could call doubles tennis and occasional fundraising galas for Democratic Party hopefuls entertainment. But Greg seemed moldable, in that respect. A ready-made companion for these booze-fueled, shame-ridden nights. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He pulled out all the fucking stops for Greg, kind of vamping for him. <em>Drink the gold, my friend. Two thousand bucks a pop! Bottle service. Twenty-four karat piss. </em>He hadn’t tried this hard to impress someone since—well, Shiv. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>At some point, with the bass-heavy music rattling the balcony beneath their feet and nearly drowning out any attempt at speech at an audible decibel, Greg leaned into Tom’s shoulder and craned his neck towards his ear, but Tom tilted his face up at the same time. Greg’s mouth brushed up against Tom’s, and he drew back, eyes bright with alarm.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Fuck,” Tom exhaled, and he pulled Greg down by his lapels to kiss him on impulse. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The force of the kiss had them swaying on the spot. Greg gripped Tom’s shoulders for balance, dug his fingers into his suit jacket. He felt drunk, dizzy. Tom laughed into Greg’s open-mouthed kiss, sure he was dreaming this. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Let’s get out of here,” Tom said, right into Greg’s ear. He grinned at the full-body shudder he earned in response.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His driver might have felt a bit of vindication, Tom thought in the far recesses of his sober mind, while he pinned Greg to the supple leather backseat and pressed desperate kisses to the hollow of his throat. S<em>hould have seen the other guy.</em> Six-foot-seven and about as coordinated as a newborn calf, but yeah, Tom could take him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Fuck, this is hot,” Tom sighed against Greg’s neck. “I’ll fucking ravish you, Greg. I’ll swallow you like a goddamn songbird.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Dude, can you save that for—not here?” Greg asked in a tight voice, eyes squeezed shut. “It’s, like, too much stimulation.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tom groaned, but he stuck to chaste kisses along Greg’s jawline and at the soft patch of skin just below it until they made it to his apartment.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tomorrow, when the new world order was in place, Tom could worry about conducting an illicit affair in his shared apartment, with his fiancée’s cousin, of all people. But he would let that thought settle for the night. He dragged Greg by the hand into his bedroom, intent on forgetting his ingrained sense of shame.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He laid Greg out on top of the duvet, just melted into him with limbs loosened with liquor and lust. Tom leaned in to kiss him, but Greg eased up on an elbow and took Tom’s face in his hands. Giant, but deceptively gentle. He stroked a careful thumb in a light arch along Tom’s cheekbones.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What happened here?” Greg murmured, a soft sound that had Tom sighing into his palm. “If I, um, may be so bold to ask.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tom tossed off his latest excuse, unthinking. “Well, ah. Shiv can be—a bit domineering, if you get my drift.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Greg raised an eyebrow. He could be infuriatingly hard to read, but even Tom could see that Greg didn’t buy it.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Okay, fine.” Tom closed his eyes, refocused his gaze on a distant point in the room so that he didn’t have to look into Greg’s eyes when he spoke. “This whole Cruises thing? It’s been—I mean, I know that I put on a good face, act tough.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Mm.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“But I haven’t really been sleeping,” Tom admitted. “And if I do, it’s these fucking nightmares.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Greg made a sympathetic sound. “I get those, too. The shit that happened on those cruises, man.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Uh huh,” Tom said, not willing to make the ghoulish admission that actually, his nightmares had been of a different persuasion. Feverish storylines that wouldn’t be out of place in an <em>Oz</em> rerun. “So I, ah, started taking Nyquil and I guess it’s a little more potent than I remember? Anyway, I must have woken up and tried to put a nasal strip on, and—hit myself in the face.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Oh.” Greg brushed his thumb over the bruise again, and Tom let his eyes wander back to Greg’s face. “I’m sorry that you’re, like, this worked up about it.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Tom grimaced. See, this is why he couldn’t tell Shiv—never mind the fact that she’d tipped Gerri off about his grand plans for an air-clearing press conference. She’d never let him live down the stress dreams, the all-consuming dread that pooled in his stomach when he let himself really think about the mess he’d inherited. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He wanted to trust her. But she made that a challenge, more often than not.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Well, now you know,” he said. “So you don’t have to keep staring at it.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Greg frowned. “I wasn’t.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yes, you fucking were, Greg,” Tom argued. “All fucking night. You were just—every time I looked up, you were trying to get a better look at the shiner on my face. Don’t play coy.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Um.” Greg bit his lip, looked up at Tom through hooded eyelids. “I couldn’t help but, like—you know you don’t smile, when you’re in the office?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah,” Greg said, and he wore that familiar bashful look that Tom could never quite see for what it was. “You’re always so—well, not serious. But anxious, maybe? I don’t know. But you’re really, like, attractive when you smile.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It probably shouldn’t have come as a surprise—he had Greg sprawled out on his bed and hard against his thigh, after all—but Tom still gaped in disbelief. “I’m—what?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Like Hugh Grant,” Greg said, grinning now. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Okay, well. Now I <em>know</em> you’re bullshitting.” Tom studied Greg closely, a rare opportunity to see him totally unguarded, defenses down. “You’re into older men, huh.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Greg’s smile softened at the edges. “Well, yeah. But, um, you—you, specifically. If we’re being exact about it.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m not <em>old,</em> Greg,” Tom protested. “Jesus Christ. Now I don’t know if I should be flattered or offended.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Flattered,” Greg said, and skated a hand up to the back of Tom’s neck, guiding him back down for a kiss. “Definitely flattered.”</p>
</div>
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